


New Beginnings

by thedailygrind



Series: Love, Honor and Duty [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fake Marriage, Harlequin, M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern Royalty, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21789811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedailygrind/pseuds/thedailygrind
Summary: After Sendai is hit by a devastating earthquake, seventeen year old Yuzuru Hanyu is faced with a choice -- to allow his beloved city to languish, or to sacrifice himself as tribute to Prince Javier Fernandez, sole heir to the Spanish throne, and coincidentally, its treasury.
Relationships: Javier Fernández/Yuzuru Hanyu
Series: Love, Honor and Duty [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589521
Comments: 11
Kudos: 122





	1. Prologue

Spring is the most beautiful season in Sendai, Yuzuru thinks, as cherry blossoms fill the air, fluttering playfully to the ground, carpeting the grass in all their rosy glory.

It’s the season of love, Nobu used to tease, plucking a fresh blossom to tuck behind Yuzuru’s ear. And Yuzuru remembers how they’d laughed as he wrestled Nobu to the ground, until the entire park reverberated with it, the sunlight spilling through the thick trees and bathing them with its warmth.

That's how he remembers everything from before. Laughter, and spring, the blush of something new dawning on the horizon.

Love, Nobu promised, Yuzuru couldn't wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuzuru makes a choice.

“Sensei, Nanami sensei!”

Everything is pitch black. There are voices around him, shouting, crying, screaming, but they echo somewhere far and beyond, out of reach.

“Get up,” he pleads, grabbing for her arm, but she just lies there, limp and unmoving, he keeps pulling on her, but his hands are wet, stained with thick viscous liquid that makes her slip from his fingers.

It’s blood, he thinks, blankly. Blood, and his hands are soaked with it, the metallic tang of it stinging his throat.

The smoke is getting thicker now, and the building rumbles, debris raining down on them.

He shouts again, something desperate but his reedy voice is lost amidst the thundering of the earth. Rock and concrete rain from the ceiling and a chunk hits Yuzuru on the back, the impact slamming the breath out of his chest.

“Yuzu,” Nobu cries, his voice sounds wet and choked.“Yuzu, we have to get out of here.”

Yuzuru looks at him, lost. His fingers still loosely curled around Nanami-sensei’s, ice-cold hands.

“But Sensei—“

“Please,” Nobu says, his arm a steely weight around Yuzuru’s waist as he hauls him away, “come with me. We have to get out before the building collapses.”

“We have to help her,” Yuzuru whispers, but they’re already too far and Yuzuru watches as a bookshelf dislodges, falling heavily onto the pile of rock burying Nanami-sensei’s legs. She doesn’t move. Yuzuru presses the back of his hand against his mouth so he doesn’t scream.

“We have to go now,” Nobu says dragging him by the elbow. They hit the floor with a heavy thud and Nobu shoves at him, so they can crawl under the safety of the tables, toward the exit sign.

Shattered glass litters the floor, and every time Nobu tugs him forward, the glass embeds itself deep into his hands, his knees. It hurts so much, Yuzuru starts to cry, the tears blurring his vision, as he inches forward on his hands and knees until the rocks and glass are embedded in his skin, cutting deeper and deeper with every breath.

He thinks then, this is what hell must be like - smoke and screaming and pain that cuts to the bone. But they make it out, somehow, the dark clouds of smoke giving way to fresh crisp air, and Yuzuru’s arms give out. He lies there, turning his head to dry heave onto the tremoring concrete.

“They’re here!” Someone yells. Rough hands grab his shoulders, pulling him out of the rubble.

He doesn’t remember very much past that.

The days after the earthquake pass in a blur, Yuzuru remembers lying in the large makeshift shelter, looking up at the ceiling, wondering if the lights will come shattering down on them as they sleep. 

They sleep on the floor, huddled up in old blankets that smell like mothballs, Nobu curled up against his side because it’s too cold to sleep any other way.

When dawn breaks, Yuzuru tugs on a pair of too-big boots and goes to the dining hall, so they’ll at least have one onigiri to share before the kitchen runs out. He waits, the cold morning air chasing goosebumps up his skin and takes a careful bite, wrapping the rest up carefully so the rice doesn’t get hard. 

Yuzuru goes to sleep with a bitter cold settled deep in his bones, and a gnawing ache in his stomach that won’t go away.

The invitation comes, two weeks later.

He remembers because they're sitting by the windows, the first time Yuzuru had been able to be near glass without having a panic attack. They stare out of the window, looking at the skeletons of the buildings that remain, hideous and entrancing all at the same time.

More and more people trickle in, and the food rations grow pitifully small. Most days Yuzuru doesn’t bother going to the kitchen anymore, just lies on the ground and closes his eyes, dreaming of hot wakame soup, pretending he’s too full to eat anything at all.

Today is different, he knows, because the cook stuffs two onigiri into his pocket, right before the men wearing black suits come into the hall, and his mother, who never raises her voice shouts, “Yuzu, Yu-chan!” urgently. So he goes, fingers laced in hers, pressed close to her side. 

They leave the shelter, and the car ride is long, and the leather seats are soft. He falls asleep folded against his mother’s side, feeling warm for the first time in a long time.

A middle aged woman in a navy suit greets them at the compound. The name tag on her breast pocket reads ‘Kobayashi’. They smile and exchange pleasantries, but his mother’s hand is tight and anxious on his own.

“Yuzuru-kun,” Kobayashi-san begins, with an affected smile. His mother looks at her for a long minute, her usually gentle expression now firm.

“Yuzu,” she murmurs, pushing him gently behind her back, away from Kobayashi-san’s prying eyes, “there are snacks in the waiting room. Why don’t you eat something?”

He nods, because he recognizes the pleading note in her voice, and he’s not sure he wants to know what put it there.

The walls of the makeshift embassy are paperthin. That’s what happens, Yuzuru thinks, when you try to rebuild city in two weeks. Yuzuru kneels in the next-door lounge, faced with a buffet spread but only able to keep down sips of hot tea, because his stomach isn’t used to the idea of food anymore.

“He’s a child,” his mother hisses, “not a bartering tool.”

“Do you think any of us want this?” Kobayashi-san says, her voice rising shrilly, “we have no choice. 18,000 are dead, and the number rises everyday. Thousands of houses, factories, destroyed by the tsunami. And don’t think that's the end of it with the nuclear waste, we can’t even estimate the longterm damage.” 

“It’s not Yuzu’s fault that the earthquake happened,” his mother whisper-shouts, “it should’t fall to him, to fix it.”

“Hanyu-san,” she says, “this is not a request.”

The negotiations continue.

That night, Kobayashi-san leads him down the hallway to a modest room with two neat twin beds. There’s a bathroom attached, with running water, he marvels, _hot._ Yuzuru takes his first real shower in weeks. 

There are new clothes, socks, shoes, and a piping hot dinner after. Yuzuru has never been interested in food before, but at dinner he spoons hot food into his mouth until his tongue burns and his stomach hurts and he can’t breathe.

His mother sits next to him hands curled primly in her lap, and eats very little.

He looks at the heavy bags under her eyes, the brittleness of her wrists, and thinks, whatever it is they want from him, he’d be willing to give, in exchange for his mother having a warm blanket at night, and hot showers in the day, and fresh food on the table.

He lies in bed, his mother sitting at his side, her fingers absentmindedly stroking his hair. He looks at her stiff posture, the unyielding curve of her lips, and thinks about the people waiting in that makeshift shelter, crowded on the cold, hard ground. He thinks about Nanami-sensei, silent under all those rocks.

Of all the people who died, he had _lived._

What for, he thinks, feeling a dark stab of guilt, if not to do something about it?

“Okaasan,” he says quietly, laying his hand over hers. She turns to him, her eyes softening.

“I’ll do it.”

The papers are signed quickly and efficiently the next morning. Kobayashi-san hovers over him, smiling delightedly. Yuzuru bows because it is the polite thing to do.

It takes one thumb print. One black inky smudge and then it’s over, and they’re left alone, sitting on hard plastic chairs. His mother is dressed in white, the color of mourning, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Okaasan,” he says, softly, and she cups his cheek, her face drawn and haggard.

“Oh Yuzu,” she says, and smiles. Yuzuru watches the tear trek down her cheek. 

She had never forced him to do anything, and here she wouldn’t force him to retract the contract either. 

“My brave boy.”

He clutches her wrist, reveling in the warmth of her touch, and they stay like that until the officials crowd around him, and gently pull them apart.

Nobu shows up suddenly on the day he's getting fitted for his ceremonial robes, bringing news from the shelter. 

"It's getting better," he says, when Yuzuru asks. The water has mostly been restored, and rations and emergency supplies had come pouring in from the nearby regions. About half of the refugees in the shelter have been moved out, rehoused somewhere with electricity and heat and water. It will be a tight squeeze for a little while, but things are slowly getting better.

He doesn’t say much after that, but Yuzuru already knows what he's thinking from the way he stands, uncharacteristically silent, hovering over Yuzuru with his hands pressed deep into his pockets. He watches the seamstress fussing with pins, adjusting and readjusting the cloth until it fits perfectly around Yuzuru’s lithe frame.

Yuzuru sits patiently and bears her poking and prodding, and Nobu's silent questions with good grace.

“You were right, you know,” Yuzuru tells him, when she excuses herself to procure more fabric.

He cuts Nobu off, suddenly too exhausted for questions, too tired to defend a decision he's already committed to. Especially because it's the right one.

He looks down at the half-finished kimono, running his hands over it, an amalgamation of their countries and cultures, the symbol of the happy union to come.

The fabric is silky soft in his hands, the sleeves dyed a deep red, beautiful flowers blooming down the skirt, embroidered to life in fine golden thread. 

Red like the Spanish flag, gold like the Spanish coffers. 

Nobu turns away like the sight pains him. 

“Right about what?”

I _t’s April again_ , Yuzuru thinks, looking out the window and watching the cherry blossoms drift lazily by. 

“Right about spring being the time to fall in love.”

The sun is high at its peak, and in the glaring sunlight, the fabric shimmers so brightly it makes his eyes hurt.

Red, he thinks and closes his eyes, red and gold like blood, and broken glass.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javi sends a gift, and Yuzuru finds renewed purpose.

“You don’t have to do this,” Nobu says the next time he visits. 

The speech pours from his mouth, stiff and too fast, like he's rehearsed it in his head all week. “We can fix it. It’ll take time and it’s not going to be easy but—“

“We can’t fix this,” Yuzuru says, feeling a rising sting of irritation. Because Nobu is watching him, outraged and hopeful, like Yuzuru is the one who needs saving. Yuzuru who has hot water pouring out of his faucets and four sturdy walls around him to keep out the cold. 

“This will take _years_ , Nobu-kun, even with government grants and volunteer teams. Even with me doing— whatever it is I’m doing.”

“We can,” Nobu says stubbornly, because he’s always been too optimistic for his own good. Normally it’s one of Yuzuru’s favorite things about him. 

“It won’t be quick,” Nobu is saying, “but if we rally together as a community—“

“With what?” Yuzu says, “rebuild with what resources? The shelter can barely keep everyone fed as it is and when winter comes…”

He trails off but they both know where this is going.

“That’s not on you,” Nobu says, fists clenched, knuckles white with indignation. 

Yuzuru hates seeing him like this, because Nobu isn’t supposed to be fierce, he’s supposed to be comical and silly. This look, pained, and adult, doesn’t sit right on his features.

“You don’t have to be the hero,” Nobu says, quietly, “you don’t owe this to anyone.”

“Don’t I?” Yuzuru wonders aloud.

Nobu opens his mouth to say something, but his eyes flit over to Mayu, and the fight evaporates from his frame. She’s not showing yet, but the way her hand comes up to caress her belly almost as an afterthought, Yuzuru thinks they must already know. 

“I lived,” Yuzuru says, unbearably guilty, “I owe it to us all to do something about it, because I _lived_.” 

He settles into a routine at the embassy quickly enough. There are a lot of things to that go into organizing an wedding, let alone one that involves international royalty. In the mornings, Kobayashi-san sets him up with English tutors. He doesn’t like the languages very much, but as a future diplomat and representative of Sendai, he has to concede it’s an indispensable skill.

The afternoons are reserved for Spanish culture, geography and history. It takes up the majority of the day, but Kobayashi-san promises that while intense, he won’t have to take very many more after he’s married.

“Fernandez-sama will help,” she says, and Yuzuru thinks about the way his name curls on her tongue, exotic and beautiful.

Studying economic policy and disaster aid is his favorite part of the day. Numbers have always come easy to him and knowing that the data he acquires will eventually be put to good use in Sendai's relief efforts one day spurs him on.

It’s past midnight when he begins drafting a proposal for Sendai’s first round of disaster relief efforts. The numbers swim in his vision, and he gets a headache calculating and optimizing the pros and cons of each aid allocation, but he thinks about Nobu, and Mayu and all those other kids freezing back in a empty school hall and can’t bear to stop.

When Kobayashi-san knocks on his door at nine in the morning to call him down to breakfast, she finds him red-eyed in the study, bent over a book, scribbling edits in the paper columns.

“Hanyu-san,” she murmurs low, so she doesn’t startle him.

He looks up and their eyes meet for a long, intangible moment. In the light of day, she looks so much like how he feels, earnest and lost, wanting Sendai to recover, by any means necessary.

“Hanyu-kun,” she says quietly and sinks lower, until her bare knees hit the hard wooden floor. She kowtows neatly, bowing until her forehead touches the ground.

“Thank you,” she says, as her shoulders start to shake, “I’m sorry and thank you.”

As he watches her stand up again, straightening her skirt, the line of her back tall and dignified, he thinks this must be what it’s like, to sacrifice for the good of your country.

He doesn’t think he could ever regret it.

Kobayashi-san asks him to sit in at the emergency aid meetings held twice a week. 

"It's good practice," she says, meaningfully. "For later."

By which, she means, the meetings he will soon preside over. 

The thought leaves him restless and nervous, unable to keep still. But if there's anything he's learned growing up, it's to step up when things get difficult. So he spends more time locked in his study, ripping through academic papers until his head spins.

The cabinet meetings are long and tedious. The advisors argue and debate, throwing scientific terms that fly over Yuzuru's head.  But he keeps notes of the things they discuss, so he can go back and fill in the gaps in his knowledge when he's alone. By the third meeting, he's drafted his own policy, laying out the optimal way to distribute aid, and the measures local officials can take to track its efficacy. 

"While we have limited resources we should focus our efforts on areas that provide the highest spillover effects."

The advisors exchanged bemused looks, but when it becomes clear that Yuzuru's proposal is backed by empirical evidence, they approve and the relief efforts begin in earnest.

Over the next couple of weeks, Yuzuru leaves the compound to oversee several rebuilding projects. He sees the relief in people’s faces as factories start running again and power lines are fixed. He sees the hope light up in their eyes and spark in their faces.

This must be what happiness feels like.

On a warm spring morning two weeks later, the first grant arrives.

It’s packaged in a thick white envelope, a letter printed on stiff, glossy paper, the crest of the royal family’s emblem etched into the parchment.

“To His Royal Prince Consort, Yuzuru Hanyu,” it reads, distant and formal, “it is my greatest honor and pleasure to work alongside you, in both personal and official capacities , to bring relief to the people whose homes and lives have been devastated by the recent tsunami. I have visited Japan many times in my youth and deeply admire the culture and tenacity of the Japanese people…”

Yuzuru skims the rest of the letter, which offers up more of the same - more diplomatic tidings, and expressed enthusiasm to their joining in matrimony. Then he hits the bottom,

“…hereby pledge ten million euros, effective immediately…”

He stops, running a reverent finger over the zeros, the ink smudging lightly under his fingers.

Ten million euros, he thinks, his heart leaping in his throat. As he straightens out the letter he’s surprised by a thick braid of hemp that falls into his lap, its design intricate and elegant, The thread is thick and elegant, a traditional Japanese symbol of the strength of a marital bond.

_Shiraga,_ Yuzuru thinks wonderingly, smoothing his finger across the traditional Japanese symbol of the strength and immutability of a marriage bond. Although their marriage is political, the thought behind the gesture makes Yuzuru’s heart squeeze.

There’s an informal letter attached, penned in looping script which reads

~~_Dearest To_ ~~ _~~my Consort~~ _ _Dearest Yuzuru_

_I wish we could have met under better circumstances_

Here, the words are broken up by a dark blue blob of ink, as if the writer’s pen had paused for too long in thought.

_however now that the match has been made, I find myself excited to getting to know you_ ~~_more intimately_ ~~ _and for the many happy adventures we will have together._

_Yours,_

_Javi_

Yuzuru stares at the letter, unsure of what to make of the effusive warmth and directness of its sender. _Very un-Japanese_ , he thinks, startled. For the first time, he starts to wonder about Prince Javier Fernandez, if he speaks as candidly as he writes, if his eyes are blue or green or brown…

He reads the letter over again, straining for more clues, and his eyes automatically drawn to the scratched out words; intentions recklessly scribbled out and hastily corrected, and then at the end, _yours._ His thumb settles over the endearment, memorizing the sound and texture of it, and he feels something warm and contented settle in his chest.

He pockets the note, for further study in the privacy of his room. If Kobayashi-san sees it, she doesn’t comment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javi’s never been one to believe in love at first sight, or fairytale dreams.
> 
> Love, he thinks, is the kind of thing that doesn’t happen by accident.

His Royal Highness Prince Javier Fernandez-Lopez, sole heir to the monarchy of Spain arrives in Sendai at the end of April. Despite the devastation of the city, the cherry blossoms still bloom in full glory, sweeping their sweet scent into the air, carpeting the ground in light pink petals.

Japan with its rich culture and rapid technological developments had long been of interest to the Spanish monarchy. The disastrous Touhoku earthquake had arrived at a somewhat fortuitous time, hastening the long hoped-for alliance.

And so Prince Javier had arrived to formally wed the Japanese tribute, in exchange for a small fortune, dressed as bridal dowry.

Except, the only princely thing about Javi, is that he just happened to be born into royal blood.

He sighs, feeling his suit itch where the heavy fabric touches his skin. Political marriages were common in Europe and growing up, he’d become comfortable with the idea - that he might promise his life to someone he’d never met, never known. 

Yet he’d hoped, at least, to be married to someone he could respect and converse with. His parents, who’d married the same way, were clearly fond of each other and out of the media’s eye, their family was warm, protective, affectionate.

To marry someone who had no choice, he thinks, who had been forced in to a corner, because of something they couldn’t stop, felt _wrong._

“It’s the right thing to do, _mijo,”_ his mother says, pulling him into a hug, “it is a good arrangement for both of us, you’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right, mama."

They stares down at his haphazardly packed suitcase, and belatedly Javi wonders if he should have packed more _rabitos,_ because he’s pretty sure they don’t stock that in Japan. The thought makes him ache with the beginnings of homesickness.

As if she reads his mind, his mother runs his fingers through his hair, humming, and Javi takes comfort in her, tries to hold on to the scent of her hair, so he can think of them when they’re apart.

“You know,” she says, and when Javi looks at her, her eyes are lit up with mischief and fondness, “when I saw your father for the first time I thought he was just awful.”

“Oh, mama,” Javi laughs and shakes his head.

“But look at us now, _mijo_ ” she says smiling, “thirty years and two beautiful children. I couldn’t have dreamt of a better life myself.”

Javi’s never been one to believe in love at first sight, or fairytale dreams.

Javi thinks of the way his parents are, his father teasing his mother eyes dancing and words playful, yet when she stands, his palm always a warm weight on her back, and they share a small look, just for the two of them.

Love, he thinks, is the kind of thing that doesn’t happen by accident. It’s the kind of thing you grow, like a small seed, watering it with love, fertilize with respect and protect and cherish, so when it flowers, it sounds like the tinkle of his mother’s laugh.

The Japanese delegation receives him at the airport with utmost pomp and grandeur. The two delegates who receive him bow and murmur deferentially when he arrives. It is an hour’s drive to the royal residence, Aobajou, and when they pull in, the castle is decked in red, heavy lanterns hanging from the ceiling, ready for a grand celebration.

It’s beautiful, he thinks.

He is escorted to his chambers by a young, demure Japanese woman.

“Please feel free to freshen up or rest,” she says, in lightly accented English. “Your schedule for the week is laid out on the desk alongside with the briefing materials. I will escort you to your first meeting in two hours.”

“Wait,” he catches her wrist as she makes to leave, and the young woman looks shocked at the gesture, her cheeks flushing pink.

“Sorry,” Javi says, retracting his hand with a wince, “uh, do you know when I will meet, um, my consort?”

Her initial embarrassment melts away and she smiles then, secretively, “you will meet at the formal signing ceremony.”

“I think we should meet once at least, before the press conference.”

“You are too anxious, Fernandez-sama,”she says, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“It’s bad luck to see a bride before the ceremony.” 

She hides a giggle behind her sleeve before she bows and slips away.

Aobajou is alive, bubbling over with the buzz of excitement and activity. Javi is shuttled from one meeting to another; finalizing his wedding preparations, getting to know his cabinet members and familiarizing himself with the customs expected of foreign dignitaries.

By the end of the day he is exhausted, and his room feels stuffy and suffocating. He ventures into the garden, sighing as the cool spring breeze hits his skin, thankful to be outdoors. Effie, glad to be let out of the room runs ahead of him, chasing butterflies and rolling in the grass. 

He follows behind her, down a winding footpath which leads him away from the castle, away from the cloying scent of sandalwood and away from the red celebratory decor; all heavy reminders of his future responsibilities.

“Dios mío,” he says, closing his eyes, wishing he was in Madrid with the scent of the salty sea in the air and the warm summer sun on his skin.

There’s a soft gasp and Javi turns around and abruptly realizes he’s not alone.

There’s a young boy kneeling a little ways ahead of him, his hands outstretched to a familiar tortoise-colored calico. He’s clad in a beautiful white kimono, soft delicate flowers embroidered in pale blue on the collar. It draws attention to the creamy line of his shoulders, the dip in his clavicles. 

He blinks in surprise when he notices Javi’s presence, his long eyelashes framing a pair of beautiful doe eyes. While a white surgical face mask covers the rest of his delicate features, Javi can see the beginnings of a light pink flush creeping up his neck at being discovered.

“Your highness,” he says, rising to his feet quickly. He offers a respectful bow, his movement fluid and graceful, like a dancer’s.

“You know who I am,” Javi blinks, “I’m only sorry I can’t say the same for you, pequeño.”

“Please not tell anyone,” the boy says, “I’m not allowed outside, but then I saw her.”

He smiles, charmed, unable to keep his eyes off Effie who seems equally entranced. She curls herself around his ankle, mewling delightedly.

“I can keep a secret,” Javi says, because the two make an adorable pair.

The boy looks lovingly at Effie as he stoops down again, tickling her under her chin until she meows back, coming close enough to butt her head against his chest.

“Her name’s Effie,” Javi offers. At the sound of her name Effie’s ears perk up and she trots over, rubbing herself smugly against Javi’s calf.

“Your cat?” The boy asks, eyes wide and fascinated, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Effie, and it makes Javi smile.

He moves closer, until Effie wanders to him and paws at the hem of his kimono, begging to be picked up and he eagerly complies.

“She’s so soft.” His eyes curve in happiness as Effie licks his hand, settling against his chest with a contented purr. “I love cats.”

They stay in amiable silence for a while - the boy watching Effie, and Javi watching him. It makes him wish he could see the rest of his expressions, what is hidden under the flimsy paper.

“Why are you wearing a mask, pequeño?” Javi asks later, when Effie finally deigns to be set down.

“Have asthma,” the boy says, and sniffles, as proof. “Cannot get attack before ceremony. Too important.”

He pauses, his dark eyes suddenly solemn. “Do you like Japan, Fernandez-sama?”

“I do,” Javi says with an easy honestly. “I love it all. The food, the culture, the people. I’m happy to be here, even though I wish the circumstances were… different.”

The boy ponders over his answer before he nods, seemingly satisfied. 

“Fernandez-sama,” he says and his voice wavers uncertainly, “do you think you’ll be happy?”

Javi doesn’t even need to think about it.

“I do,” he says, because he’s always been certain at least of this, “because love will grow with respect and kindness. And I believe that my partner has those qualities. Kobayashi-san tells me Yuzuru spends a lot of time studying economic policy and how to best serve his people. I cannot help but love him already.”

The boy watches him for a long moment, eyes bright with an emotion Javi can’t name. 

“Okay,” he says quietly, “okay, good.”


End file.
